


Shout, Shout, Let It All Out

by TheGrandR



Series: Old Guard Tattoos [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Awkward Flirting, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Nickys love of 80s music will be a recurring theme, Romance, cute boys being cute, no sad endings here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGrandR/pseuds/TheGrandR
Summary: The man, who could only be Booker, lowered his head and all Lykon could think wasoh no, he’s hot, before the guy opened his mouth and that thought was immediately amended to,oh no, he’s an asshole.OrLykon just wants a damn tattoo and he doesn't know why the Universe is giving him such a hard time.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Lykon, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Old Guard Tattoos [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929823
Comments: 13
Kudos: 121





	Shout, Shout, Let It All Out

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was getting a tattoo the other day and my artist kinda reminded me of Booker? And it all went downhill from there. What started as an idea for a cute little one-shot spiraled into this monstrosity, the beginning of a whole series. Thanks, brain. And thanks ziggybaker for helping me flesh this out!
> 
> Also, just fyi, I am not a professional tattoo artist. Anything I write about them or the industry, comes from research and my own experience of being in that chair getting poked by needles. If I get anything wrong, please let me know!
> 
> I'm still very much invested in my Sense8 fic, and will be updating that regularly.

For such a well-known shop, Old Guard Tattoos was surprisingly small and out of the way. Lykon had almost missed it, down a little side street with no awning or signs advertising it’s presence, though of course it didn’t need to advertise itself. Their legion of Instagram followers, _Inked_ articles, and the fact that he’d had to make an appointment two months in advance spoke to that.

Pushing open the plain glass and wood door, he was immediately assaulted by… was that Tears for Fears? Hesitantly walking in, he approached the empty reception desk, looking curiously at all the different styles of artwork hung all around the space. The shop was large and airy, with pale hardwood floors and a large window that lit up the space with lots of natural light. Near the window was a rack of t-shirts with the shop’s logo and different works from each of the artists, next to that were prints and sketches for sale. On the opposite wall were several framed posters of flash art, arranged in order of price, and beneath those was a large wooden table covered in portfolios. The reception desk, a large antique looking thing, was situated next to a wall which broke up the area behind it into an L shape, presumably to give customers privacy from visitors and people just browsing.

On the desk, beside an open MacBook, was a round silver bell, the type usually seen on hotel check-in desks in the movies, and Lykon lightly rang it, wondering if it would even be audible over the loud 80’s pop blaring from the speakers next to the laptop.

“ _Cazzo_!” 

There was a loud thud and a crash and the sound of someone laughing loudly, followed by a string of incomprehensible, but increasingly angry sounding Italian, though in Lykon’s opinion, anyone speaking Italian generally sounded angry, regardless of what they were saying. Practically falling from behind the wall, a tall man with ridiculously huge pale green eyes set in an equally ridiculously handsome face grinned at him cheerfully. His face was bright red and he was tugging at the hem of his button down to straighten it, when what he should have been doing was paying more attention to what buttons went where because they were all done up wrong.

“Sorry about that,” He chuckled breathlessly, trying desperately to flatten his hair where it stuck up awkwardly, like he’d been running his hands though it or pulling on it. “I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

“No, I just got here, you’re fine.” Lykon reassured, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets nervously. “I, uh, I have an appointment? With Booker?” Tapping a few keys on the laptop, the man perused the screen for a moment. As he did, Lykon took that moment to surreptitiously check out the guy’s tattoos. On his right forearm was a beautifully detailed longsword, so realistic looking that Lykon wouldn’t be surprised if it sliced open the hand of anyone who touched it. On the back of his left hand was another incredibly realistic tattoo of an eye. The iris was a deep brown, and the artist who did it had somehow managed to convey a palpable sense of warmth and amusement. 

Noticing Lykon’s gaze, the guy smiled and held out his arms, letting him study the art more closely. “They’re beautiful, yes? My Joe is exceptionally talented at any style he chooses, but I think he has a way with color that elevates his work into something transcendental, don’t you think?” He smiled at the eye on his hand, a small, private thing, and gently rubbed his fingers over it.

“I should listen to you talk me up to customers more often, it’s quite the ego boost,” a teasing voice remarked, before it’s owner appeared from the other side of the wall and stood by the desk, arms crossed and smiling down at the guy seated behind it. He was another ridiculously attractive man, with laughing eyes and dark curls stuffed beneath a backwards cap. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, but Lykon could see splashes of bright jewel tones peeking out of his collar. As he uncrossed his arms and leaned his weight on the back of Reception-Guy’s chair, Lykon noticed a similar eye tattoo, also on his left hand, though instead of brown, the iris was a bright bluish-green.

“It’s not talking you up if it’s true.” They shared a smile before simultaneously turning towards Lykon. It was strangely intimidating, being face to face with that much gorgeous man, and he nearly took a step back just to make the sight less overwhelming.

“Booker is ready for you, if you’d like to head back now?” He followed the two men back behind the wall, head on a swivel as he took in the rest of the shop. More art lined the walls, framed sketches, old black and white photos of heavily tattooed men and women, even several oil paintings hung in ornate frames. The space was divided into sections by screens, each one slightly varying in shape and size, with different designs painted on them. The setup gave each artist privacy with their customers while still maintaining the open and airy feel of the reception area. To his left, Lykon could see a young black woman with two long braids working on an americana style flower on a customer’s calf. The flower was made of bold, strong lines and saturated with smooth, bright color. Another woman, slightly older, with short dark hair, observed her as she worked. He recognized her photo from the shop’s Instagram account. Andy, co-owner and Actual Legend. Getting an appointment with her was almost impossible, spots filling up almost six months in advance, unless one was lucky enough to book an appointment with her as a guest artist in another shop, but those spots filled up within hours of being announced. From what he’d heard, she was so talented that half the time she didn’t even use a stencil; just looked at the picture of the customer’s chosen image, and freehanded it. 

Joe stepped into the space next to them, turning around to wink at Reception Guy before starting the process of sterilizing the padded chair in his station for the next customer. “Are you an artist here, too?” Lykon asked Reception Guy, wondering if he had seen any of his art on Instagram.

“No, no,” he replied bashfully, “the most detailed drawing I can do is a stick figure. I keep track of appointments and run the shop’s social media.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Nicky,” Joe piped in. “You basically run the shop. Without you we would be lost in darkness.”

“He’s gonna be running _from_ the shop if he doesn’t stop leaving the front desk to make out with _you_ every chance he gets.” Andy drawled, raising an eyebrow at Joe, who grinned widely, completely unrepentant. “We may not be able to see you in that corner but neither one of you is what anyone would call subtle.” She gestured towards Nicky’s torso. “Case in point.”

Frowning, Nicky looked down and noticed, for the first time, that all the buttons on his shirt were in the wrong holes. Cursing in Italian, not that Lykon knew any Italian but the tone of voice one used when cursing was universal, he undid all the buttons and quickly redid them correctly. Unbuttoning his shirt had given Lykon a brief glimpse of a large, colorful chest piece, but he hadn’t been able to make any details out.

“Sorry, Boss.” Andy rolled her eyes and went back to observing the other woman’s work, while Joe, still grinning, went back to work. “We’re professionals, I swear.” Nicky assured him, making a joke out of it but clearly a little worried that Lykon hadn’t gotten the best first impression.

“I believe you,” he assured the other man. What he wanted to say was that their easy banter had made him feel more comfortable than any other tattoo shop he’d visited, but he didn’t really want to start badmouthing any other shops, even if they deserved it. “You guys have a really comfortable vibe here, I like it.”

“Good!” Nicky’s wide, earnest eyes lit up in relief and Lykon had to look away before he did anything drastic, like ask if he could just sit and stare at him for the next few… hours.

Nicky led him down to the last station, in a corner by the back door. The padded chair was covered in plastic wrap and a tray with three different tattoo machines was set up next to it, the reference photo Lykon had emailed the shop when he made his appointment sitting on the tray over a pile of paper towels that had been ripped in half. Everything looked ready to go, all that was missing was the actual artist.

“Ah, sorry,” Nicky apologized, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “He must be out back having a smoke. Just, have a seat and he’ll be right with you, I promise.” With one last stunning smile, Nicky walked back to Joe, leaning in close to show him something on his phone. Joe’s hand immediately pressed lightly into Nicky’s lower back and they angled their bodies into each other, touching from their shoulders down to their feet. It was such a thoughtless, intimate gesture and it sent a pang of _something_ through Lykon’s chest.

The back door opened, setting off the small bell hanging above it and drawing Lykon’s attention to the man who just walked in. The short sleeves of his plain blue t-shirt left his arms on display, and not only were they attractively toned, but they were also covered in tattoos. On his left forearm was a large block of text, surrounded by brightly colored roses and tulips, and on his right was Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Lykon couldn’t make out what the rest were, all he saw were patterns of brilliant sapphire and emerald. Even his neck was fully tattooed, however those were mostly done in shades of gray. His head was tipped back, taking deep gulps from an almost empty bottle of water with a bit more relish than Lykon thought was really necessary. After draining the bottle, the man, who could only be Booker, lowered his head and all Lykon could think was _oh no, he’s hot_ , before the guy opened his mouth and that thought was immediately amended to, _oh no, he’s an asshole_.

“You’re fucking early.”

Frowning, Lykon checked his watch and saw that, yes, he was indeed early. By five fucking minutes. And this guy was already acting like it was some big inconvenience, grumbling to himself as he carelessly tossed his cigarettes and lighter into the top drawer of a small plastic storage cart. The comfortable, playful vibe he’d been enjoying was completely gone and now he felt like an intruder instead of a customer.

“Hey!” A sharp voice called out, getting Booker’s attention. Nicky was facing their direction, eyes seeming to glow as he glared at the other man and shook his head furiously. For a man who came off as sweet and somewhat shy, his angry face was more than a little intimidating. Joe watched Booker, gaze sympathetic and annoyed in equal measure and the man in question sighed resignedly, rubbing his eyes roughly.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I just got some bad news and-“ he shook his head. “Anyway, that’s not an excuse. Can we pretend I didn’t just make you change your mind about getting tattooed here?” He seemed genuinely apologetic, and Lykon thought back to all the other tattoo shops he’d gone to before making an appointment with Old Guard. They were the only shop he’d come across that actually had a diverse portfolio, showcasing all different styles of tattoos on all different color skin. He figured it might be a bit difficult to tattoo his skin, leaning more towards the darker end of the shade spectrum, but he hadn’t realized so many artists would just flat out refuse to work on him. Seeing the variety of colors represented on Old Guard’s Instagram gave him hope that what he wanted could be done, and he wasn’t about to let this dude, who looked like he was one bad day away from being a trash bag wearing street person, ruin that.

“Yeah, why don’t we start over? I’m Lykon, and if you’re a dick to me again I won’t give you a tip.” There was silence for a moment before Booker broke out in a wide smirk and snorted a laugh.

“I like you. This is gonna be fun.” 

Well, damn. What was it with this place, was being inhumanly gorgeous in the job description or something? If he’d been asked to name the top five most beautiful people he’d ever seen, everyone in the room would be on his list.

“Is this your first tattoo?” Booker asked, giving him a quick once over. _He’s only looking for other tattoos,_ Lykon mentally scolded himself. _He’s not into you like that, obviously, and you’re kinda pathetic for wanting him to be. He is an ASSHOLE._

“Yup.” He answered, with far more pep than the question really warranted. Could the floor just open up and take him right now? He was more than ready for that to happen. 

“What made you choose us?” The other man asked curiously, turning away from Lykon and switching on a lightbox that sat against the wall. Taking the reference photo, he placed it on top of the lightbox and taped a piece of what looked like tracing paper on top of it. With an obviously experienced hand, he began to trace the outline of the flowers in Lykon’s photo, making the stencil that he would use for the tattoo.

“Well, I’ll be honest. You weren’t my first choice.”

“What.” Booker pointed towards the front of the shop. “Get out.” He looked entirely serious for all of a second, before breaking into a sardonic smirk. Lykon rolled his eyes. He did not find this behavior charming at all. Nope. No way. 

“Can I finish?” He asked, injecting more annoyance in his voice than he actually felt.

“I don’t know, can you?” Booker shot, chuckling like he just cracked himself up. _This dork._

“Wow. I think I’ll just shut up now, save myself the agony of hearing any more of your jokes.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t make even more jokes just to fill the silence.”

Lykon tried his best to fight a smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “You’re something else,” he laughed, shaking his head. Booker shrugged and went back to drawing the stencil, soft smile on his face. “So as I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted, I went to a few shops before checking this place out, but none of them wanted to tattoo me.” Booker’s head shot up and he looked at him, eyebrow raised in surprise. “Yeah, they all basically told me they don’t fuck with black skin.”

“Cowards. And unprofessional.” Booker shook his head. “Fuck those no-talent, dickless, wannabe artist motherfuckers. I fuck with black skin.” He seemed to realize what he said immediately after the words came out of his mouth, and Lykon could practically see the internal panic as he wondered if he’d finally offended his customer enough to make him leave. Lykon desperately held back a laugh, wanting to see the other man sweat a little. He was an asshole, but his blundering was pretty fucking funny. Seeing that Lykon hadn’t walked out or punched him, Booker relaxed and continued drawing out the stencil.

“You do, huh?” Lykon questioned, surprising himself by using a slightly suggestive tone. He wasn’t normally so brazen, but something about Booker made him unafraid to say what was on his mind. Maybe it was how chill he seemed. Most likely it was because he was clearly a disaster of a person and, despite his hotness, wasn’t actually all that intimidating.

“Yeah, I do,” the other man chuckled, shooting Lykon a sly smirk. “Interpret that however you like.”

“I will.” Booker bit back a smile and Lykon could see the artist’s ears redden, and he felt a flutter in his stomach. God, was he really getting butterflies over this guy? _This guy_? As Booker finished drawing out the stencil, he held it up for Lykon to see with a dramatic flourish. Okay, yeah. This guy. How was he so cute and hot and douchey all at once?

“So, where were you thinking of putting it?”

Lifting up the sleeve of his t-shirt, Lykon gestured towards his general bicep area. “I was thinking here?”

The artist eyed his arm critically. “Are you married to that placement, or are you open to… other positions?”

Did he really just…? “I’m not married to anything. What position would you suggest?” And seriously, what was going on with him today? He _never_ flirted like that, was never comfortable enough to put himself out there like that. A tiny part of his mind was screaming at him to pull himself together before he embarrassed himself, but it was shockingly easy to push that part way back into a broom closet and lock the door. 

“Well,” Booker drew out the word as he rolled closer on his stool, gently taking Lykon’s arm in his hands and turning it over so the inside was facing up. His fingers lightly caressed the skin of his inner arm, drawing out an involuntary shiver. He looked up at Lykon through his lashes, slowly licking his lips, deep blue eyes almost hypnotic as they fixed unblinking on him. “I would suggest the inner arm,” he said in an almost-whisper, forcing Lykon to lean in closer to hear him. “The skin here is more sensitive to penetration,” Lykon gulped, “but if you have the stamina for it, then I think this session will be _satisfying_ for us both.” Booker face was flushed blotchily and on anyone else it would have been an unattractive look, but damn if he wasn’t the hottest fucking thing Lykon had ever seen. His fingers were still rubbing small circles on the underside of his arm and his eyes hadn’t looked away from Lykon’s the entire time he’d been speaking.

“I have the stamina. Do you think your needle can penetrate deep enough, and hard enough, to really make me feel it?” Who the hell even was he right now? He’d never spoken to anyone like this before, where was this all coming from?

Booker stood up, leaning over him and giving him a whiff of whatever delicious cologne he was wearing as he bent close to Lykon’s ear and whispered hotly, “With you, I wouldn’t go too hard or too deep. I would take my time, go slowly. Make sure that every press of the needle hits the exact spot it was aiming for. Every. Single. Time. And when you beg me to stop because your skin is over-sensitized, I’m going to keep going until every last drop of ink is milked out.”

Lykon could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he quickly glanced down at his lap to make sure that certain parts were not getting over-invested in the current conversation. He needed to calm his ass down. He was here to get a tattoo, not hook up with the hot artist. _Why can’t you have both,_ a traitorous voice whispered and he mentally swatted it away.

“So,” Booker cleared his throat, putting on a serious face and running a hand nervously through his hair. “I wasn’t joking when I said the inner arm would hurt. But I do think it’s a better placement for you. The skin here doesn’t get as much sun so it’s a little lighter and the color will last longer before it fades.” Taking the reference photo, he held it up next to Lykon’s arm. “There are a few challenges in tattooing melanated skin, the main one being that any colors you use will be darker than they would be on white skin. This yellow here,” he pointed at the bright, butter yellow flowers in the photo, “won’t come out as bright on your skin as in the picture, but! If I use more of the green of the leaves and stems to surround the yellow, both colors will pop beautifully against your skin.” He flashed a bright grin, eyes sparkling. “I’m excited, I think it’s gonna look awesome.”

“Sounds good to me.” This, this was exactly what Lykon had been looking for in a tattoo artist. Someone who was honest about what he should expect, who took the time to explain what he wanted to do and why. Someone who was actually willing to do the tattoo in the first place. The bar was so low it was practically in the ground.

“Alright, let’s get you prepped.” Slipping his hands into a pair of purple latex gloves, Booker shaved and sanitized Lykon’s arm, smoothing the paper stencil onto his skin. “If you want me to change anything about the placement or the drawing itself, let me know. I can redo it as many times as you need me to. The time it takes to make sure it’s perfect is nothing compared to how long it will be on your body.” Pulling the paper slowly off his arm, Booker pointed at a large mirror against the opposite wall. “Check it out, tell me what you think.”

The purple ink of the stencil was distinct against his skin and he could see all the additional details Booker had added. The drawing itself was more stylistic than realistic, leaves surrounding the delicate flowers in an elegant curve that flowed with the muscles in his arm. It was beautiful and perfect and exactly what he hadn’t realized he’d been looking for.

“I love it,” Lykon smiled, moving his arm around to admire the stencil from different angles. “It’s perfect.”

“Excellent.” Lykon sat back down and Booker gently took his arm, twisting it into a slightly uncomfortable, awkward angle. He unwrapped a new needle from it’s sterile packaging and fit it into one of the three tattoo machines on his tray, hooking up the machine to the power cord. It started buzzing, loudly, and Lykon felt his stomach flip slightly in anxiety. Dipping the needle in one of the tiny plastic containers filled with ink, Booker held the machine close to Lykon’s skin and looked up through his lashes, meeting his eyes. “Are you ready?” He asked, voice a deep rumble that spoke directly to Lykon’s lizard brain, making him want to drop his pants and get on all fours. Instead of doing that, he pulled himself together enough to nod shakily, resisting the urge to check his mouth for drool.

The first touch of the needle made him jump, but Booker had been prepared for that reaction, and pulled back immediately. He smirked teasingly and raised an eyebrow. Lykon, horrified and embarrassed, could only stare at the other man with wide eyes.

“I- I’m so sorry, I don’t- I mean,” Lykon stammered.

“You’re fine, it’s fine,” Booker laughed. “It’s a pretty common reaction, even with people who have been tattooed already. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled reassuringly and brought the machine back to Lykon’s skin. More prepared for what it would feel like, he made sure to hold himself absolutely still as the needle entered his skin.

Shit, it felt like a knife carving up his skin! He could feel every movement of the needle, a sharp, burning white pain slicing right through him.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” Booker advised, his tone mocking. Glaring at the other man, Lykon took an exaggeratedly deep breath, instilling every ounce of spite he could wrangle into the action. The tattoo artist just grinned, continuing to cheerfully torture Lykon with his devil machine. Had these machines been used in the Spanish Inquisition? He knew electricity hadn’t been invented yet, but this torture device seemed like just the sort of thing those sick bastards would have been all over. Why the hell was he doing this, again?

“So, what made you choose these flowers as your first tattoo?” Booker asked casually. If he was trying to distract Lykon from the pain, he could say with full confidence it was not working.

“They’re called Adey Abeba, and they were my Granny’s favorite. She was from Ethiopia, and she used to tell me stories about the endless fields of yellow flowers that would bloom right before the Ethiopian new year in September.” Taking a deep breath against the dull ache in his chest, he managed to finally say the words. “She died six months ago.”

The buzzing of the tattoo machine stopped and Booker leaned away, looking at him solemnly. Lykon swallowed back the tears that desperately wanted to fall. He hadn’t actually said the word ‘die’ until now. It was always ‘she’s gone’, or ‘she passed’. He just couldn’t bear to say the word, to acknowledge what really happened. She was dead. She died. His Granny, the woman who raised him, was dead.

“Fuck. That’s- that’s horrible. The death of a loved one is the hardest fucking thing to endure.” His voice cracked towards the end, and he rested his free hand lightly on top of Lykon’s. “I- my youngest son. He. He died a few years ago. Cancer. It was the worst thing I’ve ever been through.” He took a deep breath and squeezed Lykon’s hand. “I understand what you’re going through, and I’m sorry it happened.”

They sat together for long moments, holding hands and taking comfort in one another. Lykon was an only child, raised by his Granny, with no other family that he knew of. There had been no one to lean on, no other family who had known her and could grieve with him, but sitting there silently with Booker, a man who had experienced his own fair share of grief, he felt a little less alone. The loss felt a little less overwhelming. Squeezing Lykon’s hand one more time, Booker let go and rubbed his damp eyes on his sleeve. Laughing self-deprecatingly, he picked up the tattoo machine once more.

“Shall we?”

With a nod, Lykon stretched his arm out into that awkward position and Booker resumed his butchery.

“You can tell me about her. If you want,” Booker offered after several minutes of silence. Lykon took a few minutes to think about it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to share his precious memories with a man he’d only just met. They were special, she had been special. But he hadn’t spoken about her in so long, and maybe it would be good to share. To remember her, not as the unnaturally pale and still body lying in bed, but the vibrant, smiling woman she’d been in life. His lips ticked up in a tiny smile and he began to speak.

“She used to love her soaps. Everyday after school I would walk in the door and there she would be- parked on the couch, big bag of salt and vinegar chips on her lap, just completely absorbed in these crazy shows. Nothing could keep her from her stories. If she had a doctor’s appointment, she would change it. An important phone call? They could leave a message. And if there was something I wanted to watch? Oh, forget it. Between the hours of three and five, nothing else in the world existed.” Lykon laughed, a little watery and manic at the edges, but genuine nonetheless. “Then when they were done, she would spend the next hour ranting at me about Miguel ruining Sonny and Brenda’s relationship, or how Luke and Laura were just the perfect couple. I know way more about the lives of soap characters than any human being should.” 

“She sounds hilarious,” Booker chuckled.

“Oh, she was. I remember one time, at the park, she yelled at some random guy because she thought he was taking pictures of me, and she accused him of being a pedophile. I was twenty-one! And he wasn’t even taking pictures of me, he was taking pictures of a bird in the tree behind me!” 

The two men laughed together, Lykon telling more stories about his Granny, and Booker eating them up, having to stop tattooing at one point because he was laughing so hard. It was the first time since she died that Lykon had genuinely laughed, and it felt like a weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had been lifted. For the first time, he felt like he could do this, he could go on living his life without her. He’d been so involved in telling stories, that he didn’t even notice Booker had finished the tattoo until he put down the machine and turned off the power. 

“We’re done?” He asked, looking down at watch in surprise. More than two hours had passed since he’d walked into the shop and he hadn’t even noticed. Looking down at his arm, he felt tears welling up in his eyes again. The tattoo was beautiful. The swirling greens of the leaves seemed to almost move, like they were swaying in a nonexistent wind, and the yellow of the petals practically glowed. 

“Here, let me-“ Booker took his arm and squeezed out a soap and water mixture from a bottle, using a paper towel to wipe off any excess ink. “Go take a look in the mirror.”

He did, and seeing it in the mirror was even better. From a distance he could see how the different colored inks worked together to make the whole thing boldly pop against his skin. His Granny would have loved it, loved knowing he would always have a piece of home, a piece of _her_ , with him forever. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, but for the first time in six months, it wasn’t just grief. There was still that, yes, and there probably always would be. But there was hope now, too. And maybe a little bit of healing.

“I love it,” he grinned, turning around to face the man who had not only given him a beautiful piece of art, but helped him feel close to his Granny again. “Thank you so much.”

“The pleasure was all mine, trust me.” The words could have been taken as suggestive, but his tone was anything but. He seemed genuinely happy to have done the tattoo and at Lykon’s reaction to it. “Can I take a picture of it?”

“Yeah! Go for it!” Holding his arm out, Lykon stood against the wall and waited as Booker took several photos on his phone.

“Can I post it online?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Lykon shot back, laughing as Booker rolled his eyes in amusement.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” he grumbled, trying not to smile and failing horribly. Squeezing out a small blob of ointment, Booker gently rubbed it onto the tattoo, covering the whole thing with a thin layer until it shone under the lights. Tearing off a piece of plastic wrap, he covered the tattoo and taped the plastic wrap in place. “I’m going to give you some aftercare instructions to take home, but I want you to watch out for any scarring during the healing process. There shouldn’t be any problems, I was careful not to go too deep or overwork your skin, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. If you have any problems or questions, give me a call, I’ll write my number down on the instructions. You can settle up your bill with Nicky, and I’ll be right out.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling a little off kilter. Booker was all business, the earlier flirty vibe between them all but gone and Lykon wasn’t sure how to get it back, or if he even should. Had it all just been a joke, a way to make Lykon more comfortable? Had the other man meant any of it at all?

Making his way to the front of the shop, he decided not to let anything ruin this day. He was feeling good, and nothing anyone did, or didn’t do, could change that. Nicky sat at the desk, typing something up on his laptop and bobbing his head to The Cure blaring out of the speakers. When he spotted Lykon, he smiled that devastating smile of his and turned the music down a few notches.

“How did it go?” Lykon grinned and pulled up his arm, showing Nicky his gorgeous tattoo. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” The other man exclaimed. “The colors are amazing! Do you love it?”

“Hell yes!”

“Fantastic! Now let’s get this ugly matter of payment out of the way so I can look at it some more.” Lykon gladly handed over a small wad of bills, putting extra in an envelope for Booker. The man himself came walking up and handed him a small paper bag with a shy smile.

“I put some goodies in there with the aftercare instructions. Just a few things you may need.” He seemed unusually bashful, looking down at the floor and shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Lykon couldn’t help the pang of longing that stabbed through his chest. Regardless of their somewhat rocky meeting, he’d really liked Booker and had felt a connection with him. He’d thought the other man had been interested in him, but clearly not.

“Thank you guys so much, all of you. You really made me feel welcome and comfortable and, Booker, you gave me the most amazing tattoo, I just. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Come here,” Booker said, pulling him into a fierce hug, being careful not to rub against his tattoo. He was warm and firm and damn, the man smelled amazing and Lykon did not want to let go. For the sake of not being creepy, he backed away first, smiling nervously. “You’re a strong fucking person, Lykon. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Thank you. So are you. We’ll both be okay.” Booker exaggeratedly grimaced and backed up a few steps.

“I don’t know about that, but thanks for saying it.”

The two men waved at him as Lykon left the shop, already wondering what his next tattoo would be and how soon he should book an appointment. Out of curiosity, he looked into the bag Booker gave him, finding several packets of A+D ointment, a few business cards and stickers from the shop, and some little candies. Popping one in his mouth, he unfolded the printout of his aftercare instructions, scanning the page quickly. At the bottom, written in pen, were the words,

“Lykon,  
For a vaguely depressing and generally demoralizing time, call Booker! We can finish that discussion we started on techniques and positions. I have a lot of opinions and I’d really like to share them all with you!  
(xxx)xxx-xxxx”

Laughing, Lykon immediately programmed the number into his phone, wondering if calling later that night would be considered too soon. Ah, fuck it. Why pretend that he had any chill at all? Hitting the call button, he held the phone up to his ear, smiling wider than he had in a long time.


End file.
